Not Reaper

Rain lashed the square, turning the cobblestones slick with blood. The storm’s fury paled compared to the duel unfolding at its center.

Gladius surged to his feet, katana gleaming despite the mud caked on its edge. His chest heaved, his body battered, but his pride still blazed hotter than the storm itself.

Across from him stood the Reaper. No gold. No markings. No distinct mask. Just another faceless enemy — a blank porcelain visage, plain robes plastered wet against its form. A grunt, he told himself. Nothing more.

He lunged, katana flashing.

The Reaper caught the strike on the haft of its scythe, twisting, and shoved him back. Gladius grunted and came again, blade slashing in a high arc. The Reaper parried cleanly, stepping fluidly aside, and jabbed the blunt end of the scythe into his ribs.

Pain jolted through him.

Gladius staggered, teeth bared. He countered with a slash to the legs — blocked. He reversed upward toward the throat — deflected. His katana blurred, strike after strike, each one a killing blow.

Each one stopped. Redirected. Nullified.

The Reaper’s movements were effortless, almost bored. Every counter came without hesitation, as though it already knew where Gladius’s blade would fall before he swung it.

Gladius’s frustration boiled. Impossible. This is no grunt. What manner of soldier fights like this? And not just that he may be even better than the gilded one?

Another slash, another parry. The scythe’s flat edge cracked against his shoulder, bruising deep.

He is mocking me.

Gladius roared, pushing harder, sparks flying where steel clashed. But again — no strike landed.

From the edge of the square, the gilded Reaper stirred. One of his brethren helped him rise, dragging him a safe distance away. He limped, clutching his wounded legs, but his mask tilted up in time to watch. Lightning lit his face, catching the smug curve of his lips.

Now he was the audience. Watching as another did the work.

“Damn you,” Gladius spat, driving forward again. The Reaper turned his strike aside, pivoted, and swept his leg. Gladius hit the stones with a grunt, rolled, and barely blocked the downward scythe before it split his chest.

The audiance at the inn door spilled into the square.

Corvin, Sai, and Eira rushed out, weapons in hand. Dex stumbled between them, as he no longer was supported by Corvin’s shoulder, he was too weak to fight. Mira followed last, pale and shaking, her bow in her grip as she leaned heavily against the door frame.

Her eyes widened at the sight. “God…”

The Reaper’s mask turned.

“Stay back!” Gladius barked, forcing himself upright. “This one is—”

The Reaper moved before he finished.

Corvin swung first, axe cleaving through rain. The Reaper slid aside, the blade missing by inches, then slammed the flat of the scythe into Corvin’s chest. The impact threw him back, skidding across the wet stones.

“Corvin!” Eira cried. She lunged with her naginata, thrusting toward the Reaper’s gut.

The blade caught on the scythe’s shaft. A twist. A kick. Eira stumbled back, gasping, her weapon nearly wrenched from her hands.

Sai came next, his sword darting low. The Reaper batted it away like swatting a fly, then struck the blunt edge into Sai’s side, driving the air from his lungs.

But none of them were cut. None of them slain.

Gladius’s eyes narrowed. Every strike against him had been lethal. Against the children? Only enough to disable. Restrain.

“Why—” he snarled, slashing furiously. The Reaper blocked, shoved him back again. “Why do you toy with them?!”

No answer. The mask stayed blank.

“Shoot!” Shadow Five barked from the doorway. Her blades flashed as she cut down a straggling Reaper trying to approach. “Mira — arrows! Now!”

Mira’s hands shook. She raised the bow anyway, rain dripping into her eyes. The string pulled taut. She loosed.

The arrow sliced the air.

The Reaper flicked his scythe. The arrow split in half.

She notched another, gritted her teeth, and fired. Again deflected.

Another. Wide. Her vision blurred, the poison still burning her veins. The arrow clattered harmlessly against the stones.

She bit back a sob and fired again. A scratch — just grazing the Reaper’s shoulder before it twisted away. No reaction, not even a flinch.

Gladius pressed harder, rage fueling him. The Reaper’s parries grew sharper, counters harsher. A shallow cut opened across his arm, another across his side. His strength waned with every exchange.

Mira’s arrows kept flying, desperate. Out of ten, only two even brushed the Reaper. And it didn’t care.

Corvin hauled himself upright, wheezing. “Keep it busy!” He charged again, axe raised high. The Reaper shifted, caught the haft with the crook of its scythe, and shoved him down into the mud. The axe skidded from his grip.

Sai slashed from the side, forcing the Reaper to pivot. Eira thrust her naginata from the opposite angle. For a moment, the three surrounded it, forcing pressure.

The Reaper spun. The blunt scythe cracked across Sai’s knuckles, knocking the sword from his hand. A boot slammed into Eira’s stomach, folding her. Corvin grabbed for his axe, but the Reaper stomped on the handle, pinning it.

Mira loosed again. The arrow whistled, cutting across the Reaper’s shoulder — sticking this time.

Her heart leapt.

The Reaper didn’t even glance at it. It fought on as Corvin raised and threw a punch straight to the mask then tried to follow up with an uppercut but it was blocked by the shaft of the sytche and Corvins hand was later grabbed and twisted before he got kicked back.

Gladius gritted his teeth, rage flaring hotter. “What are you?!” He lunged with a desperate flurry, katana a blur. Every strike was met, every counter flawless. His arms shook from the effort, his breath ragged.

The Reaper pressed him back, step by step, until his boots slid against the edge of a blood-soaked puddle. The katana rang as it was knocked aside, sparks spraying into the rain.

Mira fired again. The arrow veered wide, her vision swimming. She cursed, drew again, loosed. The Reaper’s scythe cut it from the air without looking.

She fired until her quiver emptied, her arms trembling with fatigue. Out of twenty, only one true hit. One that the Reaper ignored.

Her bow dropped to her lap as tears burned her eyes. “It doesn’t work… nothing works…”

Gladius’s knees buckled under the next strike. The scythe’s blade whistled close, meant for his throat — only barely deflected at the last instant. His arms screamed with pain.

Not a grunt. Not a soldier. Something else.

And still, the gilded Reaper watched from afar. Leaning on another, his laughter carried low through the rain.

The bland mask tilted toward him briefly. Then it turned back, pressing the attack, unrelenting.

Gladius snarled through clenched teeth. “Better than you… better than your golden champion… Then I’ll break you myself!”

But the Reaper only advanced, silent. Every block, every strike, precise. And Gladius — for the first time — found himself fully on the defensive.

And losing.